Does This Bump Make Me Look Big? And Other Questions Instagram Can't Answer for Me

Last weekend, while at a buffet brunch with my siblings and their families, I chatted with the woman making my egg white scramble. "It's a boy," she said, eyeing the baby bump peering out from under my cropped sweater. "It is!" I said brightly. "How far along are you?" she asked. "Almost 22 weeks," I said, readying myself for the OMGSoTiny feedback I've grown to expect from both strangers and loved ones alike.

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"Big," she said.

"Hm?" I asked, sure I'd misheard.

"You're big for 22 weeks," she said firmly, handing me my eggs.

All of a sudden I wondered what her face would look like scrambled.

For the rest of the day I repeated the anecdote to anyone who would listen, eager for the impassioned rebuttals I was sure its retelling would incite. After being told to get a grip by both of my older brothers, I decided it was time to really bring the thing home by doing what I do best: beating a dead horse senseless. "What's the word I'm looking for here?" I implored my husband while we rode the subway home . "Three letters...adjective....means sizable if not hefty..." "Hmmm," he played along joylessly. "Big?"

I flashed him my winningest smile. "Ah yes," I said. "BIG."

But the obsession didn't stop there. Later that night, from the comfort of my beloved snake-like body pillow, I decided to see if my churlish chef was onto something. I opened Instagram and tentatively plugged in the hashtag #22weekspregnant, a search that yielded nearly 30,000 entries.

Courtesy of Instagram

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"I fell somewhere in the middle—the same space I had occupied when not a five-and-a-half-months-pregnant woman. And yet, I felt cheated."

As I cautiously scrolled through the #fitmama posts, I began to feel competitive. After a few minutes of bump analysis, it became clear that, in the grand scheme of five-and-a-half-months-pregnant women, I fell somewhere in the middle—the same space I had occupied when not a five-and-a-half-months-pregnant woman. And yet, I felt cheated.

For the past several months I had been on the receiving end of what I consider to be glowing antenatal reviews. "You've got that whole Kristin Cavallari thing going, where you can't tell you're pregnant from the back," ELLE.com's resident angel, Sally Holmes, had assured me. And just this past Friday, my friend Anna—one of the chicest women I know—applauded my ability to wear the same caped Nasty Gal dress I wore to a raucous holiday party she and I co-hosted last year. "I'm sorry," she said approvingly. "Have you lost weight while pregnant?"

Courtesy of Instagram

It was a silly compliment, sure—one based more on flattering fiction than fact; I have, of course, gained a significant amount of weight—but it also had its intended effect. Instead of feeling like the only pregnant woman at a holiday dinner, one whose ballooning midsection was pulling at the fabric of her #GirlBoss getup, I felt vindicated and in control. And that's one of the many things no one ever tells you about being pregnant: just how often you'll wonder if you're "good" at it. If you're anything like me you'll think about it every time you do (or don't) go to the gym, tend to another hormone-caused breakout, unmercifully stuff your belly into a pair of too-small tights, eat junk food, or spy your increasingly unfamiliar reflection in the mirror.

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This version of "good," however, has more in common with a dieter's version of "good" than it does with virtue. A decade ago, ELLE's own features director, Laurie Abraham, wrote about the scary lengths some women will go to to maintain the "perfect little bump"; in 2013, CNN reported on the dangers of "pregorexia." And though my own once-disciplined eating and exercise habits have taken a backseat to following my doctor's sensible guidelines—eating consistently throughout the day, getting lots and lots of sleep—the pressure to be "good" looms large. Yes, it's a "good" that has no business meddling with a pregnant woman's psyche. And yet, there it is.

Courtesy of Instagram

The bar for looking a certain way while pregnant, much like the bar in any arena that concerns a woman's body, is set pretty high. And for every Instagram mom happily balancing a bowl of ice cream on top of her belly, there's an Arielle Charnas, the blogger behind the popular fashion blog Something Navy, whose skinny-girl pregnancy has become a fascination of mine. Charnas, who is roughly five weeks ahead of me, and Chrissy Teigen, whom I have deemed my equal in terms of fetal gestation, have become my unofficial barometer of what pregnancy should look like. And every time I check in on their progress, I feel a little worse about my own.

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"Motherhood is the most powerful of all biological experiences and the most disempowering of all social ones."

I realize it's ironic that though I've written extensively about the unfairness of Instagram's filtered reality and the perils of celebrity avatar worship, I am seduced by social media just the same. All I can say in my defense is that one of the things that has surprised me most about pregnancy is how lonely it can be. No matter how large or sturdy your support system (or how understanding your partner), being pregnant is a singular experience, the nuance of which is unique to each and every woman. And while one woman might feel empowered by her changing silhouette, another may feel threatened by it. There's a line in ELLE contributor Lauren Slater's 2002 memoir Love Works Like This that has stayed with me: "The paradox of the whole thing," she writes, "is that motherhood is the most powerful of all biological experiences and the most disempowering of all social ones."

Courtesy of Instagram

Somewhere, deep down, I fear that this bump—this unwieldy, balance-throwing, uncontrollable life force—is doing the talking for me. It's telling my colleagues, my friends, and the omelette makers at brunch, that this baby (and, therefore, being a mom) is my identity. The only way I know how to counter this messaging is to keep its visual impact to a minimum. To deny the existence of a bump, or at least to diminish both its metaphorical and figurative size, is my way of telling the world that it does not define me. It's futile, of course. The baby, who is now the size of large mango, will continue to make his presence known. And, in this process, I will continue to be his handler, his publicist, and his vetter of wholly subjective compliments and criticisms. There's nothing I can do about that. And though I'm proud of my firm anti-gush stance on motherhood, with each passing week comes a new softness, a new appreciation for impending parenthood. This baby, I know, will be my kryptonite.

"You do realize," my best friend said gently after I regaled her with the umpteenth rendition of the big "big" story, "she was talking about the baby being big—not you." I couldn't tell her that they were one and the same or that I'd almost rather be fat than noticeably pregnant, because neither of those things is really true.

Instead I just nodded and smiled. "It's not a very good story," I said. And it's not, really. At least, not the kind of "good" most people are used to, anyway.

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